Tip Toe

Sometimes I feel like I've lost
that part of myself that clings to sunrises
with poetic verse dancing on the tip
of these tired and twisted fingers
eager to capture every breath that is lost
in the cracked light, breaking upon the morning sky.

There are many moments
that these eyes and this heart will never forget.
They are not big moments like other people's moments
full of white dresses, swirling moments, and kisses beneath the bedsheets.
But do not be mistaken,
there have been so many moments that have passed
where my heart has swollen,
pushing against the confines of these ribs.

My hands have held, soothed and hoped;
these hands have done all the talking
yet cannot translate to paper
the joy that it all brings.
If only they could talk
they would tell of late nights,
of paper cuts and coffee,
of gunshot wounds and car accidents.
They would explain the stifling nature
of the operating room,
gowned with two layers of latex,
removing organs and cancers.
The feel of cold metal instruments,
a dancing needle and thread
made to approximate the edges
of a human.

But how could I begin
to touch upon that first moment
I held a baby in my hands,
feeling the cold air fill
those tiny lungs for the first time.

Sometimes I feel like I've lost
that part of myself, that it slipped through the cracks
replaced by a whole new language
of human experiences.
But then the sunset hits the horizon
like a dance of words
tip toeing into my heart.